Fealty and Ideation
by Astraea8
Summary: Dean does think about the wider implications of selling his soul. He'd just prefer not to.   Season 3.


Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke & Co. I make no claim upon it.

**Title:** _Fealty and Ideation_

**Author:** astraea8

**Warnings:** Spoilers for the first half of season 3. Suicidal ideation.

**Author's notes:** I wrote the bulk of this way back in season 3, then poked at it every few months. I think I'm finally satisfied with it. Comments and criticism, constructive or otherwise, are welcome. Give it to me, I can take it. :)

-ooo-

There are times Dean wants to believe in a higher power, any higher power, he can't afford to be picky, but he's never felt it. He always thought belief – faith – was something you should be able to feel within yourself. Faith must make a person feel different about the world, right? Add some sensible, reliable insight ...right? Otherwise it means all those church-goers are mouthing empty rituals hoping they'd catch 'faith' like it was some spiritually transmitted disease.

It's clear Sam believes, so he must feel it somewhere. Or maybe he's scared all the time because he doesn't feel it, and he prays because he's looking for it. He's scared because he's not finding it - just like he's not finding a loophole in Dean's demon deal.

Dean knows Sam hasn't found anything yet. Sam doesn't tell him a thing about what he discovers during his secret research or hushed phone calls. Anything with Ruby goes unacknowledged, as if it must not exist. Sam keeps Dean in the dark, right where Dean wants to be because he's sticking to the terms. But still, Dean knows Sam's been throwing out bait and coming up empty.

Dean knows this because Sam is wound tighter than a coiled spring. Even in sleep, Sam is curled in on himself like the pressure is crushing him. It's clear the pressure is crushing Sam. Sam stoops a little lower as he walks, he braces himself against the table in dinners; he's always leaning on something as if he can't entirely support himself anymore.

But the kid keeps his game face when they're working a job. And if the witnesses are seeing those crows-feet splintering out from his eyes or the increasingly turned down sides of his mouth, they aren't saying anything. Dean doesn't say anything; nothing meaningful anyway.

Dean wishes things could be different; just little things, like him dying. He wishes this wasn't hanging over Sam's head like a trembling ax. He wishes, he even prays sometimes to deities he wants to be real but can't really believe in, for the small things that he'll allow himself to think about. Easy hustling, good weather and maybe a pretty girl Sam can settle down with once this is all over. He's knows they don't ask too many questions in east Texas.

It's nice to have hope for a future he won't be a part of.

Yet, despite his play at acceptance, his continued effort to manage his fears, and the ultimate knowledge of the contract on his soul, Dean doesn't want to die. Not now, not when his brother needs him; not when he had a job to do. But it's not like he'd never thought about it; considered his guns; considered some of the weirder shit in his trunk. On the hard days that took all the strength of him and the dark days that left him numb and purposeless. Too many days he felt he was drifting in a world where his actions had no effect.

On those days he'd return to whatever crappy motel room he'd rented out, if he even got that far, and in dressing down for sleep he'd take out his gun. It would wind up on the dresser – by his head, well within reach – after he took the time look it over: stroke the barrel, check the safety, and palm the grip as he imagines bringing it to his head. Between one breath and the next he anticipates the motions.

No. The gun's down on the dresser with a slight click.

He's down, under the covers and rolled away.

Not today.

And if Dean ever dared to hope, maybe not tomorrow either. He he won't though, because it's neither faith nor belief that drives him on. It's a cold knowledge that he has the dirtiest job of all: one forged from fire and vengeance. He doesn't see redemption in his work, he doesn't see the scales balance at the end of the day. And in ransoming his soul for his brother he brought back the one thing he knew turned out right because of him.

So he practices acceptance and does his best to be a brother. He promises himself he'll do it day after day after day, until they've all run out.


End file.
